


call me when your shift is up  (i think i'm losing my mind)

by rum4life



Series: Osteria [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Angst, Bartenders, Cheating, Chefs, M/M, Pining, everything is incestuous and nobody's perfect, welcome to the service industry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rum4life/pseuds/rum4life
Summary: He'd known about Brad Colbert, starred and lauded chef extraordinaire, but he certainly hadn't been prepared forBrad.
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Series: Osteria [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1537897
Comments: 13
Kudos: 73





	call me when your shift is up  (i think i'm losing my mind)

**Author's Note:**

> (while i enjoy writing this completely autobiographical series, a) i feel bad about it b) i experience a series of slumdog millionaire-type flashbacks every time i go back to edit so if these fics looks under-edited to you, that's why. if anyone wants to beta me let me know. lol and c) if you've worked with me irl and recognize any of this, please don't sue me, let's talk about it)

Nate is just turning to pull a bottle of grenadine from off of the shelf when Patterson, attempting to slide behind him with an overflowing ice bucket, practically slams into him.

"Fuck," Nate says. Ice slides down the front of his shirt, catching in his vest and staining his tie. He brushes himself down.

"Sorry man," Patterson says, voice raised to be heard over the cacophony of the customers pushing against the front of the bar. His expression is tired and apologetic. "Should've called behind."

Nate nods. He won't push it, because they're all weeded and exhausted and at 2:30 am customers are still spilling through the door, and anyway Patterson already knows he's in the blame for this one. Nate grabs the bottle and turns back, stopping for a millisecond to glance out at the two-dozen pairs of eyes watching him hungrily. He sighs inwardly. He has a love-hate relationship with Saturday night service.

 **Pro:** The tips can pile up, especially after a payday.

 **Con:** The customers come in already drunk, make a mess, and leave with vomit on their shoes and the bathroom decimated.

 **Pro:** He got into this job for the money, and stayed because turns out, he's an honest-to-God mixology protégé. Turns out he actually loves this job, and few things he's experienced in his life can compare to the feeling of a busy Saturday night where everyone's in the zone, nothing goes wrong, and the customers are satisfied.

 **Con:** Turns out, very few Saturday nights are actually like this.

*

"I'm just saying, maybe we need to choose a cut-off time and actually adhere to it," Nate presses. "Customers need to learn to actually obey the rules, and we need to be the ones to enforce those rules."

Schwetje doesn't appear to actually be listening to him. It's almost 5 am, and Nate can't feel his toes. His shoulders feel like boulders weighing his body down.

"It's great to have regulars," Nate continues, "but if said regulars come in at 4 am when we're visibly closing, trash the place and hog the toilet to do bumps of coke, and then hang around till we have to physically kick them out--"

"Nate, those regulars pay your bills," interrupts Griego, appearing behind Schwetje with a sweating gin and tonic in his hand. He takes a delicate sip through the straw, holding eye contact with Nate.

Nate schools his impression to blank, hoping as always that his distaste for the man doesn't show.

Finally, Schwetje turns away from his computer. He brightens visibly and smiles at Griego, as though thanking him for the backup. "Yeah," he says enthusiastically. "They pay your bills, Nate. Are you saying that you don't want these people to feel like home here? Are you saying you want to deprive them of a place where they feel they can escape with their friends? Take a load off?"

Nate resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He drains the rest of his beer (warm) and slides the glass through the window to their Pakistani dishwasher, who smiles tiredly at him and takes the glass without complaint. Nate throws him a look of apology and grabs his jacket.

"I'm not saying that," he tells Schwetje. "You know I'm not saying that. I'm just—"

"I think you really need to work on your hate of customers, Nate," says Griego, and Nate would punch him if Griego weren't part-owner of his hellhole.

"Yeah," says Schwetje. "You really gotta work on your team spirit, Nate."

Nate walks out without replying.

*

"Hey."

Nate’s heart skips a beat, already knowing who it is when he steps out of the door. A tall figure straightens out of his lean and watches Nate's approach, eyes tired but a small smile on his lips.

"Hey there," Nate replies. He cocks his head. "Late service?"

"Can't feel my legs," the man says.

"Yeah. Same."

Nate shivers a little as the chilly air hits him fully. Brad folds gracefully back into his lean against the wooden barrel and takes a long sip of his beer. Nate joins him, mirroring his stance and staring out into nothing, just desperately enjoying these fleeting moments in Brad's presence.

(He'd heard about Chef Brad Colbert when he'd moved to the city two years ago. He'd even gone to his restaurant once, on a date that had him drinking an extra bottle of wine just to get through it and that ended on a polite but half-hearted "I'll call you".

(The wine had been good, the food better. Really fucking good, actually. Shame that his date with Todd, the brunet soccer player with the bulging abs and zero personality, had kind of ruined the experience.

(So he'd known about Brad, eaten his food and read a couple of articles on his culinary background out of idle curiosity, but he hadn't been prepared for the 9 foot tall Nordic god—with the cropped blond hair and lean but sinewy muscled arms—that had been Brad walking into the bar at 3AM on a Saturday. Nate _really_ hadn't been prepared for Brad's clear blue eyes, how alert and curious they were, pinning Nate to the spot. He certainly hadn't been prepared for the way every muscle in his body clenched in an automatic, almost animalistic reaction to the way Brad towered over him, softly requesting one of their less-requested IPAs.)

(No. He'd known about Brad Colbert, starred and lauded chef extraordinaire, but he certainly hadn't been prepared for _Brad_.)

"Rough night?"

Brad's voice pulls him out of his thoughts. Nate shrugs a shoulder, turning just his head to meet Brad's gaze.

"We got slammed," he confesses. "Mike's out for a week because his wife had her baby, and McGraw called in sick, something about having malaria which is dubious at best. Plus, I don't know if it's something in the water or November is the new August, but I haven't made so many piña coladas in months. It's almost Thanksgiving, for fuck's sake."

Brad scoffs. "You have an original drink menu that rivals any bar in four counties, and your customers order piña coladas." He shakes his head derisively, taking another sip of beer.

"Gin lemons are the usual customer favorite," Nate says. He shakes his head. "Moscow Mules a close second."

"I mourn the loss of cultured society," Brad says in a deadpan.

"Same people that order their filet mignon well-done, probably."

"Don't get me started. I had a customer suggest ketchup with his order, once. The customer isn't always right."

Nate sighs again. "You can say that again."

They stare into nothing in slightly awkward silence for another minute or two, before Nate realizes that the sun is beginning to rise. Birds chirp in the distance, and the early morning breeze on his face reminds him of how exhausted he is.

"Well," he says, straightening and stretching. He pretends not to be keenly aware of the way Brad's eyes flicker up and down, not quite admiring, but something. They linger on Nate's torso before flicking back up to Nate's face.

Nate hopes he isn't blushing. Hopes it isn't obvious that he'll probably jerk off in the shower to the thought of Brad's hands, his eyes, the feeling of Brad's mouth on his neck. He hates this. He needs to get away from Brad, ASAP.

"Yeah," says Brad. He casts him an inscrutable look. "See you around, Fick."

_6 months earlier_

His official introduction to Brad is in April, a week after Nate starts his new job at _Recon_. Brad's been coming to the bar post-shift for years, apparently, since his restaurant is just around the corner.

He doesn't actually talk to Brad until May.

Nate gets used to seeing him outside the bar at around 3 am, his usual IPA in hand. Generally alone, but sometimes accompanied by a short, dark-haired mouthy guy that Nate learns quickly is his sous-chef.

It's pathetic, he knows it is, but he starts to look forward to taking out the trash towards the end of close, because Brad always straightens at the sight of him, smiles, and says hello. Nate always greets him in return—stammering if he's caught off-guard, cool and collected if he'd already seen him—and then walks to the dumpster with his heart pounding in his ears.

It isn't until one Monday night on his way out the door that Brad actually stops him.

Brad isn't alone that evening, and he comes in earlier than usual: 8 pm. Day off, probably. There are a couple of guys in his group, and a girl leaning against him in a way that suggests intimacy, and they're seated outside in Brad's usual spot but Brad gets an Old Fashioned instead of his IPA, and Nate spends the entire service with his stomach in knots whenever he catches glimpses of the straight lines of Brad's back through the window.

The hours blur together. He is aware of nothing but the table of four outside. No one comments on Nate's lack of focus, the drink orders he fucks up or the beer he spills on the counter, but Patterson pats his shoulder like he knows what's going on. Which—God, Nate hopes not. That would be humiliating.

When the bar closes, Nate walks out the door with nerves steeled, mentally prepared to greet the group brightly but not pause on the way to his car. He does exactly that—smoothly avoiding Brad's gaze as he says goodnight, thanks for coming, come again soon—but he doesn't make it to the car.

"Nate. Where do you think you're going?"

Nate stops and closes his eyes, breath caught in his throat.

"Home?" he replies, trying to keep his voice even. He turns back. Brad is grinning at him. He looks drunker than Nate's ever seen him. Nate isn't doing much better, after pounding shots all throughout service in a desperate attempt to keep himself from thinking about the way Brad's girl—girlfriend? —rubs herself against him like a bitch in heat.

Even drunk, Brad looks so fucking good. His eyes narrow lazily and he sways a little, and Nate feels a shot of pure electricity hit his dick as Brad's grin widens.

"We're gonna go grab breakfast at _Donor's_ ," Brad tells him. The rest of the group is watching them with drunken interest. One of the guys hoarsely shouts _Breakfast!_ and spreads his arms wide, like he's inviting the world to partake with them. Nate recognizes Ray, Brad's sous-chef, and blinks once, then twice.

"That's great," Nate shrugs a little, uncertain of what to do with this information. "Have fun."

"Come with us," Brad says. He steps towards Nate, then again, his feet leading him slowly closer. "Just one brioche, then I promise you can go to bed."

"I have—I have someone waiting for me," Nate lies, bristling a little, aware of the girl slumped behind Brad on the barrel.

Brad looks unfazed. "Tell him you were hungry."

Nate's stomach drops. _How did he_ — _?_ He searches Brad's face for a hint of—he doesn't know. He's so tired, and Brad just told him he knows Nate's sexual preferences, and the idea of spending any more than two seconds with Brad is right now the most terrifying thing in the universe.

"I—"

Brad is looming again, like he knows what that does to Nate, the way it unravels him. He's never been this close to Brad; he smells like spicy cologne and whiskey. Nate is almost fully hard, and desperately hopes it isn't visible.

"Just breakfast." Brad's voice is quiet. "Then you're free to go."

 _I can't,_ Nate thinks. _You're too dangerous._

"Yeah," Nate says helplessly. "Okay."

*

He trails behind the group, listening to the drunken argument between Ray and the guy with the mustache about the best kind of sauce to pair with a rack of lamb, and he almost swallows his tongue when Brad's hand brushes against his as they walk side-by-side.

The girlfriend hangs off of Brad's other arm and whines about her feet hurting. Nate eyes her 6-inch heels and bites his tongue.

 _Donor's_ doesn't open to the public until 6 am, but their back door opens immediately to Ray's knock, like they were expecting it. A wave of buttery air flows out from the kitchen and Nate breathes in deeply, basking in its richness. The pastry chef talks for a moment to Ray, disappears, and then returns with a tray of baked goods fresh from the oven.

"I swear to god, dog, this is the last fucking time," the chef says, but he's smiling, and pushes Ray aside to pull Brad into a hug. "How're the kids?"

"It's a shit-show without you," Brad smiles back at him. "Deflated soufflés, ice-hard gelato. How much do I need to pay you to get you back? I'll double your current salary."

"You know if the situation were different, I'd be back with you _pendejos_ in a heartbeat."

"You'll always have a place in my kitchen, Poke."

"Hell, I know. You white boys need a brown man to show you how to cook real fucking food."

Nate accepts a brioche, feeling like a voyeur. This feels too personal for a stranger to be a part of. Like watching a family reunion from the sidelines. The kitchen door closes and he walks a little further down the small, dark alley.

The air is full of powdered sugar, a sweet mist cascading down on them like snow, lending an atmosphere that is almost otherworldly. Nate closes his eyes and settles into a lean against the wall, savoring the flaky sweetness of the brioche, the way it almost melts in his mouth.

"Good, right?"

Brad leans up against the wall next to him. He looks down at Nate, mouth full, a blissful look on his face. Nate looks back up at him and feels like there's a hole in his chest. Their arms are brushing like it's nothing, sneering in the face of Nate's pounding heart at their close proximity.

"Fuck yes," he says. "Your guy knows his stuff."

"He's the best pastry chef in the fucking state," Brad says mournfully. He finishes his pastry in two huge bites, and continues with his mouth full, "If he didn't have to take over his family’s business, I never would've let him go. You should taste his tiramisu, it's a masterpiece."

"So he's the owner of _Donor's_ now?" Nate asks curiously.

"Until he wises up and sells the business for ten times its worth, yes."

The others have followed their lead, and now there's a line of them leaned up against the wall in the alleyway. Nate grabs another brioche and groans as the honey filling explodes in his mouth.

"Fucking pornographic," Brad agrees. Nate just moans in reply, enraptured by what’s going on in his mouth. He can’t help but notice that Brad is watching him again, gaze dark and heated, fixated on Nate's mouth.

Well, fuck. Nate can't do this for much longer or he'll explode. He knew this was a mistake. Brad fucking Colbert, all long legs and veiny arms and hot skin brushing against the side of Nate's body, is going to be the death of him, and he is incredibly aware of that a) Nate is very drunk and b) Brad is very drunk and c) his girlfriend’s tits are practically falling out of her shirt.

" _Recon_ got lucky," Brad says unexpectedly.

Nate just blinks up at him. "Huh?"

"People are talking about you. I mean _people_ people. The ones who matter."

Nate blinks again, trying to process.

"Schwetje and Griego don't deserve you," Brad tells him seriously. The way he sways a little detracts from the weight of his words, but his eyes tell Nate that he isn't saying it lightly. "You're wasted at _Recon_. They're technically good at what they do, but they're completely unqualified to run a business. I can smell the incompetence from down the block. We all know it, Nate."

It's hard to focus on anything when Brad's face is so close to his, but Nate tries.

"Everyone needs to cut them some slack," Nate says helplessly. He knows he's reaching, and doesn't know why he's defending them, when at the end of the day he is their harshest critic. The one who suffers most from their incompetence. "They just need to be less... less afraid of offending their customers, I guess? And maybe re-examine their floor plan. And clean a little more. And—"

And Brad just laughs, face swaying even closer, and for a split second Nate almost thinks about kissing him. Just a quick kiss, just to feel the burn of Brad's lips against his, before Nate exiles himself to Puerto Rico and takes a job washing toilets to escape the shame of being head over goddamn heels in lust with someone as unattainable as—

Brad says softly, "Too bad you have a boyfriend."

—and the world screeches to a halt around him.

"What?" Nate asks, dumbly.

"Too bad," Brad enunciates, "you have a—"

"I heard you," Nate says. His brain is imploding. "Who told you I have a boyfriend?"

"Patterson."

"Oh my God." Nate wipes a hand across his face. Rob. He forgot about Rob, and this means that Brad asked Patterson if he was single, and he doesn't know what to make of that. "I mean, yeah, I guess he's my boyfriend? We've been dating for two months."

Brad just stares at him. There is powdered sugar in his hair, the pure white dust blending into the white-blond strands. Nate thinks about licking it off, and then takes a moment to feel terrible about his life choices.

"Well, you have a girlfriend," Nate says, feeling defensive for no reason. He looks around pointedly at whats-her-face, a few steps away, who's engaged in a heated debate with Ray about what Nate deduces is either cheese– or yogurt–making.

Brad just looks at him. "Yes, I do."

"Well," says Nate. 

"Well," replies Brad.

*

When Nate goes home, he lies in bed replaying their conversation in his head over and over. Each time it makes less sense.

It's around 8 am, after he's jerked off three times and is lying in a coma–like state staring at the ceiling, that he convinces himself that it was all a dream.

*

In June, the nights grow longer. The heat brings people out of the woodwork like alcoholic spiders, and Schwetje has them put tables out on the sidewalk, meaning they have to bring in an extra runner on weekends just to keep up with the table orders. The tables which, of course, Nate has to be the one to bring inside again before they lock up.

August comes in with a blast of heat and obnoxious tourists. Nate goes from too-skinny to actually having some muscles on his shoulders from the daily workout of hauling tables and chairs in and out of the bar, and he fills out his work shirts for once.

It's strange, and different, and Nate likes it, likes the feeling of actually being on his way to physically fit. He decides to start lifting weights when he gets up in the morning, and sometimes stops to look in the mirror, a little surprised at how different he looks after doing so little.

When Patterson grabs his arm one day and then lingers, surprised at the muscle he finds there, Nate can't help but wonder if Brad's noticed, too.

There's a tightening in his chest every time Nate thinks of him, or whenever Brad stops by the bar. And every time Nate sees Rob, he can't help but note the differences he finds between Rob and Brad.

How Rob's hair is curly and long enough to almost cover his ears, dark brown instead of Nordic blond. How Rob is shorter than Nate, bulkier, how he works in IT and doesn't touch the stove except to burn the eggs when he tries to make Nate breakfast in bed one time. How Rob complains about Nate's night owl hours, while Brad commiserates.

He even finds himself guiltily thinking about Brad as he fucks Rob, trails a hand down the shining, sweaty expanse of Rob's back and pictures the strong lines of Brad’s instead. Thinks about how Rob hates to top, how Nate obliges him despite the fact that he actually prefers the feeling of being fucked, of being filled.

And when they're finished and lying next to each other without talking, Nate imagines how fucking good it would be feel to be fucked into the mattress by Brad, sloppy and messy and rough and undoubtedly perfect.

He hates himself for the fact that he can't stop thinking about it. He’s too weak to stop.

*

"Table 17 says their margarita is watery," Kocher says apologetically, holding up the tray with the returned drink. It's half empty. Nate wants to throw something. He clenches a hand around the jigger and exhales, slow and hard.

"Sure it was," he says, already reaching for the tequila. "I'll have another one ready in a minute. Sorry about that."

Kocher leans in, lowering his voice. "It's that banker guy, the one that always orders the focaccia and three bowls of olives."

"Go figure," Nate says darkly. Some customers send their drinks back because there is genuinely a problem, but they're outliers; most of the time, the people who finish their drink before complaining are just assholes with a superiority complex. Or looking for a comped tab.

He can't decide which is worse. He decides that they’re all assholes.

The front door slides open, bringing with it a wave of late-summer heat. Nate stirs the ingredients in the shaker, and uses the bar spoon to dab a drop onto the back of his hand so that he can taste. Needs more lime, he decides.

Then Nate almost drops the citrus squeezer when he glances up to see Brad staring at his shoulders from across the bar counter.

"Hi," Nate says. (stammers.)

It's been two weeks. He hasn't seen Brad in two weeks. It feels like it's been a lifetime.

_Fuck._

Brad's lips curl into a smile, and Nate wants to kiss him so badly that he has to bite down on his own lip, hard.

"Hey," says Brad. His gaze drops back down to Nate's shoulders, trails over his arms. "Guess I'll ask Patterson to get me that beer."

"Unless you don't mind waiting," Nate says. He can't hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears.

Brad sets his elbows onto the bar counter, and swings himself onto a stool. "Seems like all I do these days is wait," he says cryptically.

"Yeah," Nate says lamely, not really getting it. He realizes too late that he's staring, drinking Brad in. He steels himself and pours ice into the shaker with hands that shake with nerves, Brad's eyes on him like lasers burning into his skin. Nate sets the cap firmly, and starts to shake, putting a twist at the end of each shake like he always does. _One, two-_

Brad is looking at his biceps.

_Five, six-_

Brad is looking at his biceps, and Nate can feel the blush start at his cheeks and sweep up to his forehead.

_Seven, eight-_

The shaker is ice cold. Nate puts it down, removes the cap, and strains it into the salted margarita glass with smooth movements that he could do in his sleep, but his fingers feel like sausages and he almost drops the strainer when Brad's tongue flicks out to dampen his bottom lip. _Fuck fuck fuck fucking_ —

"Brad, my man!" Patterson calls over then from down the bar, and Brad finally turns away.

Nate finishes the drink and waves for Kocher, and he doesn't know if he's happy or devastated that Brad has been distracted.

*

"Hey."

Nate turns, surprised. "Hey. You're still here."

Brad shrugs. "Don't have anywhere to be."

After that nightmarish service, with the banker douchebag sending his margarita back two more times and two separate groups of bachelorette parties screaming their way through fifteen rounds of their cheapest cocktails, Nate had been looking forward to collapsing into bed. He's starting to rethink that when he sees a bottle of Corona next to Brad's IPA. He sends Brad a questioning look.

Brad looks down at the Corona, and almost looks sheepish. "Saw you drinking it one time."

"I—" Nate feels momentarily at a loss for words. "Okay.”

"Listen, if you don't—if you're needed at home," Brad starts, speaking quickly, and Nate could swear he almost looks nervous.

Nate chokes, says, "No, no!" almost too loudly. "Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He takes a seat, palms sweaty. Brad clears his throat twice before speaking again, some nonchalant comment about how many customers were in tonight, and Nate slowly feels himself relax as Brad tells him about how service went at _Bravo_ , how some four-top had tried to make off without paying the bill and the police had to get involved.

Nate’s coworkers drop by one by one as they all leave for home, patting Brad on the back and joking around, but after Schwetje locks up and leaves it's just him and Brad left, huddled around the barrel outside of the bar.

Brad asks him about how he got into the business, how he ended up in Oceanside. "You don't strike me as a native Californian," he observes, almost teasing, and Nate has to laugh in agreement because he is many things but tanned surfer dude isn't one of them.

He, in turn, asks Brad about his backstory. Brad tells him about his years training as the lowliest cook in countless kitchens in Italy, from Trattorie to Osterie and then finally the big leagues. Nate listens to the stories about Michelin stars and frying pans being thrown and loses himself in the slow, careful cadence of Brad's voice.

He doesn't know how long they've been talking, but when their shared laughter tapers off into a natural, pleasant pause, Brad looks down at his empty beer bottle.

"Do you want another beer?"

Nate looks around them. The streets are empty, storefronts dark. "Sure, but I don't know where we could find one. Somewhere that’s not a gas station, I mean."

He looks up in surprise as Brad stands up with a strange look on his face.

"I do," he says, and then pauses. He looks carefully at Nate like he's making a decision, and Nate lets him, seizing the chance to steal another long look at him. Drinking him in.

Then Brad nods, and walks down the street. Nate only hesitates for a split second before he finds himself following him.

*

Well, he wasn't expecting _this_.

Brad bends down to unlock the front door of his restaurant, and then stops. He looks at Nate over his shoulder.

"I never do this," he says quietly, like a confession.

Nate bites his lip. "Never drink a beer in your restaurant?"

Brad looks at him with something like heat in his eyes. "Never bring anyone inside the restaurant after it's been closed."

Something tightens in Nate's chest, making it even harder to breathe. He doesn't know if Brad's suggesting what he thinks he's suggesting. Nate might be overthinking everything, just because of his own feelings, and he can't take that chance. So, he doesn’t. He forces his voice to sound casual, says, "I won't tell if you won't."

The inside of the restaurant is dark and cool, the only light coming from the green glow of the emergency exit light. Brad disappears into the back to flip the lights on, and Nate looks around, awed by how different the place looks from how he'd remembered. The decor is the same, but this time he isn't here during dinner service, and that changes things. It changes everything.

Brad reappears with two bottles of Heineken in his hands, and sets them carefully on a table. "Want to see the kitchen?"

"Yeah, sure."

Brad doesn't move. He looks at Nate like he's expecting him to run.

Nate has no intention of running.

He walks toward the back, to the swinging doors dividing back of house from front of house, and he's just passing by Brad when Brad reaches out and grabs his wrist.

Nate swallows. He can't look up at him. He can't bear to see anything in Brad's face that isn't the longing that he himself feels, the excruciating arousal. He feels like a fucking idiot.

Nate takes a deep breath. "Brad, I'm sorry if I—"

He's cut off when Brad leans down and kisses him, hesitantly, softly.

_Oh._

Then,

_No._

"Wait," he says, and Brad stops, pulls away. Nate can't seem to get this thoughts in order. "You have a—I have a—we—"

_We can't do this. You have Natalie. I have Rob. We're both happy... right?_

Brad watches him patiently, his thumb brushing a slow circle on Nate's wrist. Nate deflates.

"I won't tell if you won't," Brad says quietly.

*

The restaurant bathroom is large and spacious, and there's a fancy chair in the corner that Brad slams Nate onto as he kisses him like he's dying of thirst. Nate fumbles with the collar of Brad's shirt, searching blindly for buttons as he moans around Brad's tongue. Brad cups Nate's erection through his pants, and Nate grinds onto him with all of the grace of a horny teenager.

"Are there cameras in here?" he pants into Brad's mouth, and inhales sharply as Brad slips his hands down his pants. Brad just breathes out a laugh and moves down to bite Nate on the juncture of his neck and his shoulder.

It's everything he thought it would be and more, the way that Brad strips him methodically and turns him over the chair, mouth barely leaving Nate's skin for a second. There are mirrors lining the wall, perfectly on level with them so that Nate can see the contorted pleasure playing on his own face, the fierce concentration of Brad behind him.

He is drowning, so aroused his vision is blurred, and he makes an embarrassing noise when Brad spreads his legs and starts to eat him out. Brad's hands are hot on his thighs, clamped down and squeezing, and Nate grips the chair so hard he's afraid it'll snap under his fingers.

And then Brad eases into him, slow and shallow thrusts like he's been practicing for this his entire life, and Nate arches his back as Brad's cock slides home, hot and throbbing and thick and perfect. When Brad begins to thrust in earnest, harder and harder until Nate is almost shouting from the intensity of it, Brad grabs ahold of Nate's hair and pulls his head back to expose his throat.

His breath hitches, a choked-off whine barely escaping when Brad slaps his ass hard, then again. He fucks into him so hard that all Nate can do is just hold on, knees braced on the chair, trying to keep up with Brad's pace like they're in a marathon and is only just managing to run fast enough. 

Tears leak from the corners of his eyes every time Brad’s cock angles to just the right spot, every time Brad slaps his reddening ass, every time Brad snarls wordlessly into Nate’s ear. Just when it's almost too much, Nate’s cock leaking and aching in his fist, Brad pulls out suddenly and gets on his knees behind Nate.

"Holy fucking shit," he breathes, and then Nate feels his hands spreading his cheeks open, exposing him to the air. "Holy shit, Nate, you look so fucking good."

Nate can't do anything except moan, gasp for air. He clenches around nothing, left empty and abandoned. “Please,” he chokes, “Please, Brad—“

Brad bites his ass and licks at him and then finally, _finally_ complies, pounding him into the wall with the force of his thrust as he roughly fucks into Nate again, and it’s so fucking good that Nate can feel his balls pulling up and tightening, feels himself cresting—

"Yeah, that's right, come for me Nate," Brad pants into his ear, eyes locked with Nate's in the mirror.

—and his orgasm hits him, so hard the breath is knocked out of him. He goes limp, the mind-numbing pleasure of it instantly loosening his muscles, and he rides the wave as Brad's thrusting goes erratic, speeds up, then stops.

Brad bites down on Nate's shoulder again, sending aftershocks through Nate's cock. He shudders, and closes his eyes and accepts the fact that this was probably the best fucking first time he's ever had with anyone. Ever.

"Fuck," he whispers.

Brad rumbles agreement, tongue swiping over the sweat on the back of Nate's neck, already cooling in the filtered air of the bathroom.

*

_See you around, Fick._

Nate leans on his steering wheel, forcing himself to breathe regularly as he waits for the engine to warm up.

He didn't see Brad for a month after that night, and when Brad walked into the bar for the first time since...since, he had that girl on his arm, the girl that Nate had asked around to find was his girlfriend of 4 years. The co-owner of his restaurant.

Nate had greeted them like there was nothing wrong, like he hadn't spent the past month watching the doorway, both waiting to see Brad and dreading the thought of it. Brad had flashed him a grin that didn't reach his eyes, and Nate had been so confused that he'd put vermouth into the Wrong Negroni he was preparing instead of bitter Campari.

And that was that. They were back to the relationship they'd had in the beginning, cautious greetings and small smiles. No more engaging conversation, no more hesitant flirting.

Nate flinches against the steering wheel as the memory of that night comes back to him again, the way they'd moved together, sweaty and panting and worshipping at the altar of each other's bodies, and he feels like he's been robbed of something. He isn't sure what. The memory resurfaces occasionally at the oddest moments, even when Brad isn't there, and he's never been tortured by anything in this way.

It's the fact that that's all he's left with, he figures. That's why it's still fucking with him. Just a memory.

And he doesn't even know why.

*

Maybe it's better this way, Nate tells himself as Rob walks into the bar and smiles brightly at him. He's greeted by the other bartenders before he even reaches Nate's end of the bar, and it's telling that Nate feels nothing about the fact that his boyfriend is liked by pretty much everyone he meets.

Some days he even suspects that his coworkers like Rob better than they do Nate. He wishes he cared more, be proud like he was in their early days together. Before—

"Hey baby," Rob says, drawing him out of his head, and leans over the bar to press a quick kiss against Nate's lips. "Was in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by."

"Hey," Nate replies. "Want a drink?"

Rob pouts. "You know I'm doing my cleanse, baby. No alcohol. Just thought I'd pop in to see you before heading home."

Nate stops the laugh from escaping his mouth, aware that this is no laughing matter to Rob. "Oh, of course, sorry."

"What cleanse?" a voice asks from behind Rob. "I've been doing the juice cleanse, but I think tonight is my last night. Can't resist Nate's martinis."

Nate's heart stops when Rob turns and it's Brad's girlfriend standing there, beaming at Rob. Her eyes—almond-shaped, brown, lined perfectly with eyeliner and eyelashes that brush her cheek when she blinks—are shining like so many burning stars under the warm lights of the bar. She's beautiful, thinks Nate. So goddamn beautiful, with her long dark hair and perfectly sculpted silhouette; her dark, exotic looks somehow dovetail perfectly with Brad's haughty, glacial features despite being their exact opposite.

In that moment Nate hates her desperately.

"Oh my God, Natalie?" Rob says.

"Robert," she says in delight, and squeals as she jumps into his arms.

"You two know each other?" Nate asks, heart pounding.

"Her brother is married to my cousin," Rob tells him, over Natalie's squeals. "You remember Carl, right?"

"Oh," says Nate stupidly, and sees Brad step up behind her. "Of course."

Brad looks back at him, and doesn't say a word.

*

The days pass, growing as cold as a beach town in California will let them, and they change their seasonal drink menu a week before Christmas.

It takes ten tries before Nate convinces Schwetje that 200 cocktails is too many cocktails for a bar that mainly serves gin and tonics and lite beers to college kids and Marines.

He's stopped staring at the door, but his pulse still races whenever he sees a blond man, or passes by _Bravo_ on the way to work. He can't deal with it, so he tries not to think about it, even as he becomes increasingly aware of how snappy he's become with Rob, how he's starting to notice the bad more than the good.

Nate tells Rob that it's work stress, don't worry about it, you know how it is at this time of year. And Rob is the perfect boyfriend, understanding and supportive.

Nate looks at Rob sometimes and waits for the guilt, but somewhere in the almost-two months since that night he realizes that the guilt has faded. He takes a moment to feel guilty about the lack of guilt and then concludes he’s probably losing his mind.

Then one day Rob drops a hint about wanting to move into Nate's place, and Nate spends the rest of the night hyperventilating in the bathtub.

*

He can't consider the possibility of approaching Brad again. Not when Brad's relationship is so deeply intertwined with his restaurant, his livelihood. His reputation. Not when Brad hasn't even said more than hello in more than a month, aside from their stilted conversation in early November. Where Brad had smiled at him like nothing was wrong, but kept his distance. Kept it impersonal.

It won't be easy to get over Brad, not when Nate is pretty sure he's in some sort of love with him. But he has to. It's the only way he can stay sane. There just isn’t another option.

He tries to get over him, and the fact that Brad isn't even talking to him makes it somehow harder, but at least Nate knows that he doesn't have a chance.

That is, until Brad comes in one night, drunk and disheveled, and Nate realizes that he doesn't care.

*

"Hey," Nate says. "We were just closing up."

"Mind if I grab one for the road, then?" Brad asks, and he's standing too close, staring down at Nate like he hasn't seen him in years. His blue eyes are lined with red tonight, stubble on his cheeks. Despite obviously not being in good shape, he still infuriatingly looks like a goddamn Greek god. Nate can’t decide if he wants to punch him or pull his pants down and swallow his cock to the hilt.

“Nate?”

Nate flinches. “Sorry. Yeah, I’ll get it for you. The usual?”

“Thanks.”

A beer for the road. Nate desperately tries not to think about Heinekens dripping condensation onto a restaurant table and Brad’s tongue between his lips. He walks around the bar to grab an IPA.

"Hey," Brad says, and he's leaning over the bar. Nate checks his peripheral vision for any unwelcome witnesses, but then realizes that only Schwetje is left, and he's in his office in the back printing out the night's receipts.

"Hey," Nate repeats. He hands him the beer. "You good?"

Brad just takes a breath, holds it, and then breathes it out. "Come home with me tonight," he says, voice low.

The bottom drops out from Nate's stomach. All at once, the feelings come rushing back, the feelings he’s been trying to force down for months. With them, though, comes anger.

"What the fuck, Brad," Nate hisses, walking around the bar to stand across from him. He pushes him in the chest lightly, with a white-knuckled fist that shakes with all of the emotion that he’s tried to kept bottled up. "What the _fuck_."

Brad holds his hands up. "I know," he says. "I just—"

"You can't just—"

"I _know_."

Nate wipes a hand over his face. Despite his anger, there is a flush of anticipation in his chest, the warmth of pre-arousal pooling in his stomach. He wants this so much. He can't want this, but he does, and it isn't fair that Brad has this much power over him.

"Come home with me tonight," Brad repeats. He closes the distance between them and draws one finger slowly down the side of Nate’s neck, hunger obvious in his gaze. “Please, Nate.”

"Fuck," Nate says, and closes his eyes. Swallows.

And then, "Okay."


End file.
